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JOHN SPENCER, 

PRINTER AND BOOKBINDER, 

CHESTER, PA. 



MISTRESS NANCY 



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Ji Drama in Four Jicts 



BY 

GRAHAM ASHMEAD 


















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THE U8RARY OF 

CONGRESS, 
Two CofNbtf Recsived 

1902 

n Copvnmtrr ENTtrY 

CLA88/T XXa No. 
2- / T «/- 
COPY 3. 



COPYRIGHT, 1902 

BY 

HENRY GRAHAM ASHMEAD. 



JOHN SPENCER. 

PRINTER AND BOOKBINDER, 

C H ESTER , PA 



kOratn 

Nancy Worthington, 
Martha Bunting, 



Anna, 

Laurence Barrington. 

Charles Grantham, 

Squire Dartmarsh, 

James Burton. 

Justice Graham. 

Ananias and Moses, 

Continental Soldier. 

Officer of Pennsylvania Militia. 

Militia and Continental Soldiers. 



tls X ersonas 

The Squire's Ward. 

Captain Grantham's Sweetheart. 

Upper Servant at the Oaks. 

Officer in British Army. 

Officer in Continental Army. 

Nancy's Guardian. 

Servant at the Oaks. 



Negro Slaves. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/mistressnancydraOOashm 



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ACT I. 

[Scene. — Library of "The Oaks/' in Roxburghshire, Scotland.} 

Burton. I say, Anna, I don't like it. All night long an owl 
hooted in the old oak planted by the master's grandfather. It's a 
warning of death in this family that I never knew to fail. 

Anna. If the Squire hadn't fainted after returning from the long 
ride yesterday, you'd never have given the hooting of an owl a thought. 

Burton. Why, Anna, you've often heard the old folks hereabouts 
tell how an owl hooted the night before the Squire's father was killed 
by his horse falling and crushing him. Mother has told me time and 
again how the night before the old Squire, the master's grandfather, 
was murdered in a duel, that no one could sleep in the house, because 
of the owl's call in the young oak he had planted when a child. The 
old oak, now, I mean. 

Anna. Don't be a fool, Burton. You give as much heed to omens 
and signs of bad luck as a fisherman's wife. Hush ! Here comes Mis- 
tress Nancy, and you must not fill her mind with your gloomy fore- 
bodings. Your idle talk might make her exceedingly unhappy, for she 
dotes upon her Daddy, though there's no blood tie between them. 

Burton. Who said anything about the Squire dying? I would 
not utter a word to worry the sweet lass, but that there's trouble hang- 
ing over this household I can be sworn. (Enter Nancy Worthington I 

(Nancy speaks as she approaches front.) 

Hasn't Dad risen yet ? Anna, I was dreadfully frightened last 
night when he swooned. I am not entirely over the fright yet, al- 
though. Burton, you told me, nearly half an hour ago, that Daddy 
would join me here presently. I don't remember that I ever before sat 
a meal through bv myself. I was so doleful and unhappy that I could 
scarcely break my fast. 

Anna. Don't brood upon trouble before it comes. My dear girl, 
it comes to us all soon enough without our running to meet it. 

Nancy. But Daddy has talked to me recently about such dread- 
ful things, about dying, and — Burton, you may retire. (Exit Burton.) 
Anna, I do not remember my mother. Try as I may, I cannot recall 
her to memory. I was not quite three years old when she died. I 
have only a faint recollection of my father, merely such an impression 
as would be made on the mind of a child of tender age. It seems that 
all my life has been lived at the Oaks with Daddy and you. The only 
mother I have ever known has been you, and I cling to you for sym- 
pathy and womanly love. 

Anna. Don't cry, my darling. I promise you that I will always, 
as best I can, stand between you and unhappiness. 

Nancy. You need not tell me how you love me. You have ever 
been kind and tender with me. But tell me of Laurence Barrington 
You know that to-day he will visit the Oaks. Talk to me about him 



2 MISTRESS NANCY. 

Dad thinks he is splendid. I like him very much, but I particularly 
want to know something about him. 

Anna. Laurence will only be here for a few hours. Three days 
hence he will sail 'for Gibralter. His regiment is to relieve the 29th, 
under orders for India. The Squire and Laurence, you know, enter- 
tain a warmer regard for each other than is usual between uncle and 
nephew. 

Nancy. Yes — I know. But what more can you tell me about 
him? 

Anna. Nothing to his discredit. By the terms of his grand- 
father's will, on the death of the Squire, the Oaks will pass to him ab- 
solutely. 

Nancy. Yes, I know. But why? 

Anna. Laurence Barrington is the only child of the old Squire's 
daughter, Deborah, who died when her son was scarcely a week old. 
His father was with Braddock. After that disastrous attack on Fort 
Duquesne, he was never again heard from. The doubly orphaned child 
was reared by his paternal grandmother, who set a high standard for 
the lad in his moral training. 

Nancy. She was a good woman. 

Anna. Yes. The present Squire, your Dad, but really only your 
guardian, had married in opposition to his father's wishes, and while 
the old Squire gave his son a life interest in his estate, he excluded the 
children born of this marriage from any share in his belongings at the 
death of their father. All the estate then is to go to Laurence Barring- 
ton. 

Nancy. How did the horrid old man know that Laurence would 
be better than his own son? Why there never was anyone better, 
kinder, or more honorable than Dad. 

Anna. Well, the prejudiced old man need not have carried his 
anger to that extent, for the delicate young wife was so shocked by the 
intelligence of the old Squire's sudden death, that the same day, she 
died childless. He and the woman he hated, yet never knew, were 
buried at the same hour in the family vault. The young Squire never 
married again. Your father and the Squire were inseparable friends, 
and at his death you became the Squire's ward. Your guardian brought 
you to the Oaks, a little tot. He loves you, Nancy. Had you been his 
own child he could not love you more. 

Nancy. Yes, yes. Every wish of mine, even the most trivial, he 
gratifies. But I have 20,000 pounds of my own. That would give me 
the pretty things I crave. 

Anna. Do you think that thought guides the Squire in gratifying 
your whims ? 

Nancy. No, that was just horrid in me. Anna, I do love Dad as 
affectionately as any daughter could love her father. I would do any- 
thing that would give him pleasure. (Goes close to Anna.) Anna, he 
spoke to me the other day of Laurence Barrington, and — and — well, he 
said the most cherished wish of his heart was that I should become 
Laurence Barrington's wife. 

Anna. You are only fourteen. There is time enough for you, 
darling, to marry four years hence. 

Nancy. I don't want to be married — I mean not yet. But Dad 
seems to have set his heart upon it. I told him if it would gratify him 
I would consent. He kissed me and seemed so happy then. 

Anna. He believes Laurence to lie an honorable gentleman, and 
the marriage would, I know, please him. 

Nancy. Anna, you don't think Dad will expect me to get married 



MISTRESS NANCY. 3 

to-day. Here in Scotland the publication of the bans are not essential. 
!." Dad pressed me to be married at once, and Laurence and I were 
married, the ceremony would be legal. 

Anna. Why, what a wise little woman you are. 

Nancy. I love Laurence. I mean I like him; but he doesn't care 
for me. Then I think I don't love him as a husband should be loved 
by his wife. 

Anna. Have no fear. There will be no haste in this matter. If 
my darling does become Laurence Barrington's wife, she will be a wo- 
man to be envied. He is a manly, truthful young fellow, that can be 
relied upon to make any woman happy and proud of her husband. 

Nancy. But I do wish that Daddy had not spoken of this marriage 
just yet. 

(Squire Dartmarsh, without.) Burton, tell Mistress Nancy I 
would be pleased if she will come to me at once in the library. (En- 
ters. ) Why, here you are, Nancy ! 

Nancy. Burton told me an hour ago you wished to see me, and 
I have waited for you. 

Squire. Anna, will you see that everything has been done to make 
Laurence's brief stay pleasant? The stage is late, and he will have 
only a few hours with us at the best. Nancy and I have some business 
matters to discuss. My ward's a woman grown now, and I must take 
her into consultation when arranging affairs in which she is an inter- 
ested party. 

Nancy. Whatever you do will be for the best. I will be with you 
in a little while, Anna. Dad and I will not be long settling this busi- 
ness. (Exit Anna.) 

Squire. Nancy, come and sit on the arm of this chair. As a lit- 
tle girl you used to climb here and fall asleep with your head on my 
breast. 

(Nancy seats herself on arm of chair.) Yes, Dad. You'd sit with 
your arms about me for hours without moving, that my slumbers might 
not be disturbed. 

Squire. I want you to listen attentively, child. What I have to 
say is of vast moment, at least to me. 

Nancy. Tell me, Dad. What is of moment to you must be the 
like to me. 

Squire. Since my poor wife died, all the sunshine that has entered 
my life you brought into this dreary old house, when, as a little tot, 
your father intrusted you to my care. 

Nancy. I am so glad you've said that, Daddy (embraces and 
kisses him). No daughter could love you more than I do. 

Squire. As years count, I am not an old man, but I have never 
wholly shaken off the sorrows of my early manhood. The doctor tells 
me — 

Nancy. He is mistaken. He don't know. If anything should 
happen to you, Dad, what would become of me? 

Squire. It is for that very reason, Nancy, that I am anxious to 
see your future position assured beyond all accidents of chance. If 
that were done, a weight of which the doctor is ignorant, would be re- 
moved from my heart. 

Nancy. Would it make you happy, Daddy, if I were Laurence 
Barrington's wife? 

Squire. Assuredly it would. I have watched the boy who will 
succeed me as master of the Oaks from his infancy, and I know that I 
could not give you into the protection of a nobler or better man. 

Nancy. I am only fourteen. Laurence is twenty-one. I prom- 



4 MISTRESS NANCY. 

ise you, Daddy, I will become his wife when I am sixteen, if he wants 
me. 

Squire. Then, my darling, I shall never see you married. 

Nancy. Don't say that, Daddy, you frighten me. I could love 
Laurence. I have heard him spoken of only in terms of praise as long 
as I can remember. But he looks upon me as simply a child, and (drop- 
ping her head on his shoulder) you and Anna have always loved me so 
dearly that I want my husband to love me too. It would break my 
heart if he did not. 

Squire. Laurence will love you, my pet. All love you who know 
you. He will be here directly. For some reason the stage has been 
delayed. That will shorten his stay, for he must catch the evening 
coach to rejoin his regiment in time to sail with the command. 

Nancy. Yes, I know. But — but he may not want to marry me, a 
child only, in his eyes. 

Squire. Laurence will be absent three years. When he returns 
you will be seventeen, a very proper age for girls to marry. I had 
hoped that when he left us for a long absence that the two persons in 
the world I love best would be man and wife. The- duties that come 
with that relationship would not be yours for fully three years. 

Nancy. Daddy, I will be married to Laurence to-day, if he wants 
me. 

Squire. I will not consent to the marriage if you enter into wed- 
lock merely because it will please me, your guardian. 

Nancy. I have always regarded Laurence as my husband when I 
came to be a grown-up woman. But he has never spoken to me of 
love, and I — well — Daddy, girls like to be told that, you know, by— 

Burton. (Entering.) Mr. Laurence Barrington has come, and 
will be here presently. 

Nancy. Oh! I'll not stay now. I will join you in a little while. 

Squire. Yes, Nancy, remove the marks of tears from your cheeks. 
Besides, I want a few minutes private conversation with Laurence with- 
out interruption. 

Nancy. If Laurence wants to marry me, he'll ask me, won't he? 
It's an awful thing for a girl to just be thrown into a man's arms. I 
didn't mean to say that, Dad. Kiss me and tell me you love your way- 
ward ward. 

Squire. (Kissing her.) I love you so well, Nancy, that nothing 
in this world could induce me knowingly to imperil the life's happiness 
of my little girl. Run away now. I will send for you shortly. (Exit 
Nancy.) 

Squire. If Laurence will acquiesce in my desire, Nancy will lie 
protected and provided for, and her happiness assured in the event of 
my death. (Enter Laurence, zvho stops and gazes at Squire.) The 
doctors were brutally honest in their opinion that my life hung by a 
thread so attenuated that the slightest undue excitement might prove 
fatal. Yet it is best that I should know the worst. 

Laurence. (Advancing.)' My dear uncle, an accident to the stage 
coach and the wretched roads have robbed me of three hours of my al- 
lotted time with you, much to my regret. 

Souire. (Taking both of Laurence's hands in his.) You cannot 
know how glad I am to see you, Laurence. You received and carefully 
read my letter. Have you given due heed to its contents ? Pardon me 
for being so precipitate in this matter. 

Laurence. Yes. I am here to carry out your wishes. You do 
yourself injustice in that letter where you speak of your criminal neglect 
in the investment of Nancy's money. Many of the schrewdest business 



MISTRESS NANCY. 5 

men of London sought eagerly for the same securities, holding them as 
not only safe, but exceedingly desirable. 

Squire That is true, but it does not relieve me of self condemna- 
tion. I feel, Laurence, that it is hardly likely that I shall ever see you 
ao-ain in this world. The doctors give me but little hope, and— 

Laurence. The best medical skill must be called into consulta- 
tion, uncle. . 

Squire. I have already visited London twice, and on both occa- 
sions The most eminent specialists came to the like conclusion. My dear 
Laurence, I have the utmost confidence in you, and I cannot show that 
trust more fully than in placing the whole future happiness of my ward, 
Nancy Worthington, in your keeping. 

Laurence. I have hardly reached legal manhood, and— 

Squire. She is an affectionate, innocent, pure girl, Laurence. I 
am sure she loves you, although she is not conscious of that sentiment. 
I assume that you reciprocate that affection ; I am sure you will when 
you come to know her worth. 

Laurence. Why, I have already learned to look upon Nancy as 
my wife that is to be ; I have always thought of her in that character. 
I am nowise entangled with any other woman, nor do I care for any 
in the like way I do for Nancy. 

Squire. If I should die now, I repeat what I wrote in my letter 
so that you will not misapprehend my meaning, the world will regard 
me as a dishonest man. (Laurence makes gesture of dissent.) I am 
not that, Laurence. The worst is that I did not exercise the best judg- 
ment in the supervision of Nancy's estate, but intentionally, I have never 
wronged her, nor, I believe, any human being. If Nancy were your 
wife, the public would never know of my shortcomings. Nothing as- 
sociated with my death causes me any apprehension, save that men may 
hold me as a dishonorable man. 

Laurence. While yon were guarded in your expressions in that 
letter, I learned enough to know that Nancy and my marriage was the 
closest wish of your heart. I am here to protect your honor and do 
your wish. 

Squire. God bless you, my boy. As I shall have to answer here- 
after for what I now say, I believe that that marriage will secure to 
both of you abundant happiness. I have explained fully in my letter 
to you why it will bring unspeakable joy to me. I need not refer 
further to this subject. I will send Nancy to you. She will expect to 
meet me here. (Exit.) 

Laurence. Were I not to be absent for so long a period, I would 
hesitate to carry out uncle's wishes in this matter. Nancy may not 
comprehend fully the seriousness of the act that is contemplated. Our 
separation may probably strengthen the bond that will unite Nancy and 
me. Certain it is, when we meet again we shall be of an age that will 
excite no unfavorable criticism. At least, none on the score of age. 

Nancy. (Entering.) Well, Daddy, I have come. Why, Laur- 
ence, I am so glad to see you. But I thought Daddy was here. He 
sent for me. (Laurence puts his arm about her.) I did not expect (he 
kisses her) you'd do that. 

Laurence. (Still holds her hand.) Yes, uncle was here a moment 
ago. Nancy, you know I am ordered away for three long years. Un- 
cle loves you and me better than all else, and he longs for our marriage 
with all his heart. 

Nancy. (Bashfully.) But I am only a child yet, and you don't — 

Laurence. Love you? Where is your womanly intuition? Yes, 



6 MISTRESS NANCY. 

I do. If I did not, I would not be here now ready to make you my 
wife, that is, of course, if you will consent to this marriage. 

Nancy. You love nic, Laurence? Are you sure you are not say- 
ing that merely because Daddy has urged upon you this marriage ? 

Laurence. No, Nancy. While it is true it is uncle's wish, I am 
here, darling, of my own desire, to marry you, if you are willing to be 
my wife. I do love you, will always love you, and so far as in me lies, 
I shall strive to make life a happy one. 

Nancy. If anything should happen Dad, I haven't a soul in the 
wide world, except Anna, to care for me. All my life I have been ac- 
customed to be loved, to be made much of, and if I were neglected or 
deceived, it would kill me. 

Laurence. Even if I did not love you now, Nancy, I would learn 
to love you. Don't you believe me? 

Nancy. I don't know. Can anyone learn to love a person as an 
act of duty? 

Laurence. No. Love is beyond human will to tender or with- 
hold. If you do not love and trust me, Nancy, it would be a wrong to 
yourself to marry me, even if your refusal should bring unhappiness to 
your guardian. 

Nancy. Laurence, I told Daddy if you asked me to marry you, I 
would consent. I believe had you gone away without asking me, that 
I would have been dreadfully unhappy. 

Laurence. May God make me worthy of you. I trust that you 
will never regret that avowel, my little wife. I will have the right to 
call you that, presently. 

Squire. (Speaks as he advances.) By a fortunate chance, Rev. 
Mr. Hamilton has just called, and — 

Laurence. Why cannot the clergyman marry us at once? Uncle, 
Nancy has consented to be my wife. What do you say, darling? Shall 
it be now? It is your right to decide. 

Nancy. If you and Daddy wish it, I — well, I consent. 

Burton. {Entering.) A lad has just reached here with a mes- 
sage from Colonel Lincoln, who is in the village on his way to Bristol. 
The roads are so washed and heavy from the storm of yesterday and 
the stage coaches so delayed, Colonel Lincoln says, that unless Mr. 
Barrington will accept a seat in his carriage, it will be impossible for 
him to join the regiment before the transport will have sailed. The 
Colonel will leave in about an hour. 

Squire. I will attend to the reply to this message. Burton, re- 
main here. Those articles and papers must go with Mr. Barrington's 
luggage. See you to their packing. Children, come with me. We 
must expedite what we have in hand. (Exit Squire, Naney and Laur- 
ence.) 

Burton. (While packing portmanteau.) I would like to have 
been present at the ceremony. What a grand couple those two will 
make. Laurence is an honest, courageous, manly lad, and Nancy is a 
charming little lass, who will soon bloom into a beautiful woman. I 
wish them all the good luck Heaven can send to them. (Enter Squire, 
Anna, Laurence and Nancy.) 

"Squire. Let me, Nancy, be the first to call you Madam Barring- 
ton. 

Nancy. (Putting her hands on his shoulders.) But Daddy, I'm 
your little Nancy still, even if I am now a married woman. 

Anna. You will always be the Squire's and my little Nancy. 

Laurence. You will all have her with you for three long years— 



MISTRESS NANCY. 7 

I am the only one who will he shut out from the sunshine of her pres- 
ence during that period. . 

Nancy It will be harder for me, who can only wait the .passage 
of time You will have so much to do, while I— Laurence you will 
write to me at every opportunity? (He nods.) I dare tell you now 
that I have loved you all my life, even as a child, and my only fear has 
been that you would not reciprocate that love. You do reciprocate it. 
my husband, tell me you do! (Barrington pets her and whispers to 
her while Burton carries out portmanteau.) 

■ Squire. (Interrupting.) I regret that you must separate. But, 
Laurence, the chair is already at the door, and you must hasten now. 
The swollen streams and heavy roads have robbed us of much of the 
time that you were to be with us. (Laurence and Nancy exit at side 
door.) Anna, now that they are man and wife, I feel almost young 
again. May God's richest blessings be showered upon them. 

Anna Amen, with all my heart. (Laurence and Nancy enter.) 
Laurence. (With his arm around Nancy.) Cheer up, my little 
wife. Probably uncle will bring you to see me during the coming 
spring. You will come? (Nancy nods consent.) Good-bye, Anna; 
good-bye, uncle. I promise you that I will love, shield, and protect 
your little girl, no matter what the future may hold in store for us. 
Nancy my wife, kiss me farewell. I must hasten now. (Takes her 
in his' arms, and leads her to chair.) Good-bye all. Stay where you 
are. Let me remember you in this room, where I trust to meet you 
all on my return. (Exit.) (Squire leans over Nancy and pats her 

hand.) _, , 

Anna. (Looking out of window.) He s gone. They must need 
drive rapidly to reach the village in the time set by Colonel Lincoln. 

Squire. All has happened as I ardently desired. At some future 
time, my little girl, you will bless your old Dad's memory for this day 
and the happiness it has made possible for you. 

Nancy. Daddy, I bless you now. It was through your insistance 
that I am Laurence Barrington's wife. 

Squire. Why, I believe Laurence has left his cloak. We cannot 
forward it to him in time to catch the transport. Oh, well, we can 
send it later. (Picks up cloak. Letter falls out. Burton enters.) 
Nancy, to you I commit the custody of your husband's apparel, your 
first care as a wife. 

Burton. (Picking up letter.) This fell from the cloak, sir, as 
you picked it up. (Hands letter to Squire.) 

Squire. It is unsealed. It may be a matter of great moment. If 
so, we must forward it to Laurence by special post riders. (Opens 
letter, starts back in alarm.) God help me! what is this? (Drops let- 
ter, puts hand over heart, and staggers into chair.) 

Burton. (Alarmed.) What is the matter, Squire? (Bends over 
him.) Quick! the doctor. This is something serious. 

Nancy. (Dropping on knees in front of Squire.) Daddy! Dad- 
dy! speak to me. What is the matter? (Takes his hand, which falls 
from her grasp. Places Iter hand jm his heart.) Dead! Dead! What 
has caused this? What can have shocked him so? (Rises, picks up 
letter.) This may explain. (Reads.) I could forgive this man his 
wrong to me. 'But I cannot, I will not forgive the wrong that has 
broken the heart of his doting uncle and slain him. All of you listen. 
I am not Laurence Barrington's wife. This letter_ proclaims his in- 
famy. He held me to his breast and whispered lies. He went un- 
blushing through the ceremony of marriage with me, while a devoted 
wife in this (points to letter) pours forth her love for him, and joy- 



8 MISTRESS NANCY. 

fully announces the birth to him of a son and heir. (Drops on her 
knees.) Thank God. Daddy, the blow that struck you down was in- 
stantaneous. Von. the soul of honor, are better as you are than to 
live to know the perfidy of this creature, whom, you, one and all, pro- 
claimed as the very embodiment of every manly virtue. Fate has been 
more kind to you than to me. I live — Daddy, why cannot I join you ; 
you who never deceived me, but whose joy was in my happiness. 
(Sobs.) 

Anna. Darling, is the letter addressed to Laurence? Does it 
mention his name? May there not be some mistake? 

Nancy. (Rising to her feet.) That is his cloak. This letter is 
written by the wife he has wronged to the husband whose loyalty she 
does not question. There can be no mistake. I am not his wife. So 
soon as the funeral of Daddy is ended, I will leave this house, never 
again to enter its walls. I will tear Laurence Barrington's image from 
my heart. This moment of agony has destroyed my girlhood, leaving 
me a woman with all a woman s anguish and despair. God help me 
for I love — I cannot help loving Laurence Barrington with all my heart. 
(Faints, as curtain falls.) 



ACT II. 



[Scene. — Apartment in Military Hospital. Chester. Pennsylvania. 
A couch in rear of stage. Colonial furniture. Ananias and Moses ad- 
justing the room.] 

Ananias. You was skeered to deaf. Dat was de trouble wif you. 
Who eber heerd ob a ghost at de Friends' Burial Ground? Dat's only 
you'se 'magination. You'se just done and gib you'self away bad. 

Moses. Now, uncle Ananias, I seed dat thin' myself. Nobody 
done and tol' me. I was comin' down de Edgmont road, 'bout mid- 
night. I had been to tell Dr. Brown he was wanted 'mediately for 
old massa war powerful low, when right ober de fence ob de grave- 
yard, I saw — 

Ananias. Yes'um! yes'um! Go on, what fo you stop talkin fo' ? 

Moses. You done and 'rupted me wid your "yes'um." 

Ananias. Go right 'long with your fairy story. Don't you want 
me to listen to you, Moses? I didn't 'tend to 'rupt >ou. 

Moses. De moon was settin' in de west, and you could jes make 
out de top ob de fence, as clar as day. 

Ananias. You don' say dat? 

Moses. Dat's what I is a savin'. I seed two great wings a flap- 
pin' an' a flappin' and I heerd dat thing say "Ghu-haw! ghuTiaw!" I 
made dead Mire it war de imp ob de debil. Sometnin' done got right 
into my fraught and choked me. I started and run, my heart a beatin' 
tell you could hab heerd de thumps jes like hammers ob a fullin' mill. 
I ain't tellin' you'se what somebody done tol' me, but what I see with 
my two eyes and hearn with my two years. What are you'se laughin' 
at, anyhow? You ignorant ole nigger. 

Ananias. You'se fool. You don't know de bray of a mule from 
de song of a debil. 

Moses. Don't you bleve in ghosts, nohow? 

Ananias. Yes. In 'spectable ghosts, in course I does. But you 
can't fool you'se ole uncle wid no worn out army mule, what jest got 
strayed at night into the Quaker graveyard. Now dere's de ghost ob 



MISTRESS NANCY. 9 

de murdered girl under de archway ob de granary. Dat's all right. 
She 'pears at times, no doubt 'bout dat. I wouldn't go dar fo a hatfull 
ob gold half-Johnies, when dar's a thunder storm comin' up. Ole Col- 
onal Hannum knowed what he was 'bout when he stored in dat cellar 
de kegs of powder fo' de Congress soldiers. Dar ain't many folks 
would go dar on a dark night nohow, and mighty few don't keer much 
'bout goin' thar by demselves in de daylight. I'd heap rather take a 
hiding dan go dere alone in broad daylight. (Enter Anna.) 

Anna. Boys, that is enough of your foolish ghost stories. What 
was the cause of the musketry firing we heard an hour or so ago? 

Ananias. Don't know 'zactly, but I heerd dat de militia and some 
ob de King's troops had a brush on the Queen's highway, jes dis side 
ob de White Horse. De redcoats war takin' in some fodder and feed 
dey had confisticated on de Tinicum meadows, when the militia 'tacked 
dem, killin' free or four, and woundin' some ob de officers 'fore dey, de 
Britishers, got away. Heerd dat tole to Justice Graham at de Court 
House, and de wounded, I heerd Captain Davis say, was to be fetched 
to dis hospital fo' 'tention. 

Anna. Did you hear who the wounded were? 

Moses. No. misses. I done ies heerd dat all de dead and wound- 
ed war de King's troops. De militia kin' of 'sprised dem, and gave 'em 
dere medicine, 'fore dey knew 'zactly whar dey war at. 

Burton. (Enters and recognizes Anna, whom he addresses.) 
You here? I would have known you, Anna, although you have changed 
since I saw you last on the day the old Squire was buried; the after- 
noon when you and Mistress Nancy Barrington ran away. 

Anna. Ananias and Moses, go to the Court House and learn 
whether any of the wounded will be brought here. (They exit.) I 
did not wish to speak before those negroes. How dare you insult my 
Mistress Nancy Laurence by calling her by that name. Remember she 
is known here as Mistress Nancy Laurence. Since that mock marriage 
she has not used her own nor the name of the man who did her and 
her doting old Dad such dreadful wrong. 

Burton. She has appropriated his Christian name, however. But 
whatever wrong was done at that time was not of Captain Barrington's 
doing. There was no mock marriage. It was a legal, binding cere- 
mony. Captain Barrington and Nancy Barrington are man and wife, 
if ever a religious ceremony made two persons such. 

Annv That cannot be. No man can legally marrv a woman, who 
had a wife living at that time. When Laurence Barrington went 
through the ceremony of marrying Nancy, he was already a married 
man, with a wife and child then living. 

Burton. He was not. In the hurry of coming to the Oaks, he 
unwittingly exchanged his cloak for that of Lieutenant Haversham, 
and the letter you all read was written by Madam Haversham to her 
husband. I believed that there was some error; you then believed that 
also. When the news reached Captain Barrington at Gibraltar that 
his uncle was dead, as he was known to be the heir, he was given 
leave, and went to the Oaks to find that his wife, believing the worst, 
had abandoned his home, without seeking an explanation. That mar- 
riage was his ruin. 

Anna. His ruin? How about the girl? It is harder by far for 
her. 

Burton. He has never in my presence had an unkind word to 
say of Nancy. That is a subject of which he never speaks. In your 
hurried departure, you left behind you a miniature which the Squire 
had had painted of his ward and hung in his room. 



io MISTRESS NANCY. 

Anna. Yes, we forgot it until we had gone too far to return. 

Burton. Out of the ruin of his estate, that miniature is one of 
the few things Laurence has saved, and he has carried it with him 
wherever he has gone. He loved that girl when he married her. I 
believe he still loves her. 

Anna.- How do you know this ? .... 

Burton. I went to him after you left. I followed him to the 
Colonies after his exchange into the Grenadiers. He has been two 
years in America on active service. 

Anna. Nancy and I have been in Chester nearly four years. 

Burton. Laurence is now poor. He has had little but his pay to 
live upon, but now he has sold his commission, and in a few days, 
when the sale is approved, will cease to be in the King's service. He 
and I also will locate in the Colonies permanently. 

Anna. Where is he now? 

Burton. He was wounded in that miserable skirmish to-day. a 
few miles east of Chester. He is being brought here, to this Rebel 
hospital, for treatment. The surgeon, one of your local doctors, or- 
dered me to ride ahead and see that everything is made ready for his 
reception. 

Anna. (Anxiously.) Is he seriously hurt? 

Burton. No, but he is depressed and indifferent. That, I fear, 
may militate somewhat against his speedy recovery. 

Anna. Does he know that Nancy is here? 

Burton. No. Her lawyers in London — they were his also — as- 
cured him she was not in the British Isles. He does not imagine, I 
believe, that she came to America. You know, Anna, that the money 
in her guardian's hands has been paid to the last penny. 

Anna. I know she has abundant means. Nancy has devoted her 
life since the war began to charitable work in this hospital. Burton, 
she must not know that Laurence Barrington is here. His very name 
must be concealed. If she was told that he was wounded and in this 
hospital, I fear it might kill her. She loves him, for I hear her some- 
times in her sleep muttering his name accompanied with terms of en- 
dearment. 

Burton. Have her lawyers never told her anything of her hus- 
band or his affairs? 

Anna. She forbade them to do so. That dreadful mistake has 
never been explained to her. She believes herself legally an unmar- 
ried woman, although she is united by love to the man she wedded. 

Burton. You must tell her all. She might in ignorance marry 
again. She who is the legal wife of Laurence Barrington. 

Anna. No fear of that. Many suitors have sought to win her. 
but she repels all advances, kindly but firmly. 

Burton. This condition cannot remain. If she loves her husband, 
as I know he loves her, they must be brought together. There is no 
justification for their being apart. 

Anna. Time will solve this strange complication. I believe if 
the facts were told her abruptly it might do her serious harm. Dr. 
Wadford, of London., cautioned me to be careful to avoid a shock. 
The death of her Daddy and her own marriage are so associated that 
we must act most advisedly. She does not even talk with me now of 
these bitter memories. 

Burton. I searched for the marriage certificate at the Oaks, think- 
ing she might have thrown it aside. We failed to find it. Doubtless 
it was destroyed. 

Anna. It was not. Nancy carries it concealed in the bosom of 



MISTRESS NANCY. n 

her gown. She will not confide it even into my keeping. Hush, she is 
coming. I know her step. Do not make yourself known. Act as if she 
were a stranger to you. It is for the best. (Enter Nancy.) 

Nancy. Have you learned anything, Anna, of the musketry firing 
an hour or so ago? (To Burton.) Pardon me, but your face is very 
familiar. You resemble one James Burton, whom I remember at the 
Oaks in Roxburghshire. Have you ever been there? 

Anna. (Crosses to Burton and whispers.) Deny your identity. 
Lie if you must ! 

Burton. Roxburghshire! That is in Scotland, just beyond the 
Cheviot Hills. You may confuse. Madam, me with a relative. There 
are Burtons on the borders, I think. 

Nancy. Strange! Your voice and face recall to me sad mem- 
ories. You are sure you have never been at the Oaks? 

Burton. Sure, Madam. 

Nancy. (Aside.) I am mistaken. A trick of memory merely. 
(To Burton.) You are connected with the English army in some way? 
Have you ever heard of Mr. Laurence Barrington, a lieutenant in the 
37th foot? 

Burton. There is at present no person of that name holding a 
commission in that regiment. I am with Captain Laurence of the Gren- 
adiers, 27th of the line. He was wounded this morning in a skirmish 
near the White Horse Tavern, and is now being brought here. 

Nancy. Laurence ! Why, that is my name. Is he seriously in- 
jured? 

Burton. No, but he is an unlucky gentleman, who, I fear, puts 
but slight value on his life, and will make but an indifferent struggle 
for that life. He is whollv alone in the world. 

Nancy. Poor fellow! It is sad when the future gives forth no 
hope to man or woman. Death is preferable to life in such a state. 
(Aside.) God help me! I have voiced the desire of my own heart. 
(To Anna.) Anna, show to this person the apartment which we can 
place at the use of Captain Laurence. Such as we have, they are at the 
disposal of King's man or Continental alike, when they enter within 
these walls. (Exit Anna and Burton.) 

Nancy. I am strangely moved. The sight of that man has opened 
all my heart wounds afresh. The coincidents are so unusual. The 
wounded man's name is Laurence — the name I chose and have used for 
nearly five years. The similarity in name and appearance of the man 
who was here a moment ago_ to the Burton of my childhood is more 
than singular. I know not why, but I feel that a crisis is approaching 
that may chansre my life wholly, or may bring to me the restfulness of 
death. How childish it is in me to give way to such absurd imaginincrs 
It is merely the suggestion that lias followed the partial lifting of the 
curtain which shuts in my unhappy past. (Knock.) Come in — (En- 
ters Captain Grantham.) 

Grantham. Mistress Laurence, I trust I do not intrude. I saw 
you pass by the window, and I want to tell you something. May I ? 

Nancy. Certainly. I am glad you are recovering from your ill- 
ness. A little exercise in the open will benefit you, I think. 

Grantham. Mistress Nancy — I may call you that, may I not? 
You have been so kind to me that you will not think I am presumptu- 
ous? 

Nancy. Certainly not. You may call me Nancy even. But might 
not Martha Bunting object to the familiarity in your address to me? 

Grantham. She will never notice it. She simply despises me. 
She can't help it, for she must know I am a coward. 



I2 MISTRESS NANCY. 

Nancy. You a coward? A man who has twice been promoted 
for deeds of valor on the battlefield, whose name has twice appeared 
in the general orders issued by his Excellency, the Commander in Chief. 
You are a brave man. Captain Grantham, not a coward. 

Grantham. But I am. Most every man I know can muster cour- 
age enough to speak to a woman. You are the only woman I can talk 
to without stammering. You are so good and kind, I could tell you 
anything. 

Nancy. You speak from partiality and a measure of flattery com- 
bined. Surely, Captain, you are not afraid of Martha Bunting. You 
saved her life when the planks of the bridge broke with the tread of 
her horse and hurled her into Chester creek. When the same mare 
threw her and dragged her by her habit, you again saved her life, for 
bad you not risked your own by springing before the frightened animal 
and arresting its flight, Martha Bunting would not be alive to-day. 

Grantham. That was nothing to do for her. I — I like Martha 
Bunting, but when she thanked me, I felt so foolish that I wished the 
earth would open and swallow me. She couldn't help but despise me. 

Nancy. You err there. Captain. She admires you and is proud 
that your manhood and personal courage were displayed in her behalf. 
Captain Grantham, why don't you seek her society? A woman who 
admires a man is always flattered by his attention. 

Grantham. She could not admire me. Pardon me, I don't doubt 
vour word. But don't you know I often wonder how you can tolerate 
me. I don't know anything of the conventionalities of polite society. 
My old aunt who brought me up and lived with me ever since my par- 
ents died is blind, and then she loves me too well to recognize my fail- 
ings. I overheard some of the. French officers at Valley Forge last 
winter jesting at my lack of polish. I had picked up enough French 
to catch the substance of their remarks. 

Nancy. I do not propose to betray a woman's confidence, but I 
tell you. Captain Grantham, as a man I respect, that any attention yon 
might offer to Martha Bunting would not be resented by her. Don't 
be displeased with me, but you are in love with her. I am sure she 
loves you. Don't throw away your life's happiness. God help the man 
or woman who does that. 

Grantham. Your life has not been a happy one. I did not sus- 
pect that until this moment. I do not ask your confidence, but remem- 
ber that whenever Charles Grantham. can be of service to you, he will 
only be too glad to aid you, as you may need his aid. You are a srood. 
noble woman. Mistress Nancy Laurence, and I trust you absolutely. 

Nancy. You are exceedingly kind. Captain Grantham. Martha 
Bunting, I think, may well be proud of the man whose heart she has 
won. 

Grantham. Don't tell her that I am in love with her. Please 
don't tell her that. You are mistaken; she does not care for me save 
as a friend. 

Nancy. I certainly will not speak to her of your love. You'll 
tell her the old sweet story yourself some of these days, never fear. 

(Door opens and Captain Barrington is carried in and laid on 
a lounge by militia.) 

Officer of Militia. Mistress Laurence, this man's wounds have 
been dressed temoorarilv. Dr. Worrall will be here presently. The 
surgeons think it would be best not to disturb the patient immediately. 
He is weak from loss of blood, but otherwise his condition is not dan- 
gerous. We leave him in your care, and in that he is fortunate. 



MISTRESS NANCY. 13 

Nancy. We will observe the doctor's orders. (Exit militia.) I 
will remove the covering from his head. It is not needed now to 
shield him from the sun (throzvs off covering—staggers back and is 
caught by Grantham). What should I do? He must not recognize 
me (Pauses as if in thought.) I cannot run away now, as I _ once 
did He needs careful nursing. That he shall have until he is so 
nearly restored to health that I can pass out of his life again as I did 
once before. I will, I must be strong and brave. He shall never sus- 
pect who I am— I must caution Anna. 'She must, if necessary, deny 
her identity and mine. (Starts.) Oh, Captain Grantham! 

Grantham. (Approaches and speaks in whisper.) Mistress 
Nancy Laurence, between this man and you there is some bond of 
which I am ignorant ; and on which I do not seek enlightenment, but I 
know you as a good, pure woman, beyond reproach. I promise you 
that I will minister to this man, who to me is a stranger. You have 
ever been a true friend, and I will be a friend to you and yours for 
your sake. 

Nancy. I cannot in words thank you for what you have said. 
You, Captain Grantham, make no empty promises. I will dare to tell 
you that which no person save Anna and myself knows. (Points.) 
That man is my husband, or I— I thought he was my husband. I ran 
awav from his home, but his name and my honor nre unsullied by any 
act of mine. You know my secret— I will tell it to you more in detail 
later. Say nothing of what you saw or what I have told you. You but 
a short time ago said you trusted me absolutely. I in return trust you 
absolutely. 

Grantham. Until you give me leave to break my silence, my lips 
are sealed. I will leave you to consider what course of action you will 
adopt. You must determine that for yourself. Later, when you are 
more composed, I will be glad to know how I can best serve you. 

Nancy. I will tell you of my unhappy life, without reserve. ] 
cannot do that until I have your promise that this man, no matter what 
his crime may be, shall not be punished through any instrumentality ot 
mine or for anything in which I may seem to be the injured party. 

Grantham. I promise and accept your conditions. I came to you 
to-day hopeless and sick at heart. You lifted me out of my despond- 
ency. I will do all in my power to lighten the burden that Fate has 
cast upon you. I will see you again this evening, when you may tell 
me as much or as little of your past as you deem best. It will do you 
good, little woman, to discuss your troubles with a friend. Possibly 
it may assist in unravelling much that now appears hopelessly tangled. 
(Aside.) God help her! Whatever may be the secret, it cannot he 
anything that is disreputable. (Exit.) 

Nancy. Nearly five years have passed since Laurence Barring- 
ton and the woman whose life he made a hell stand face to face once 
more. I was a child then. Now I am a woman, tried by wrongs such 
as rarely enter into lives of women. Once I thought I could have d->/ie 
that man to death, for there was murder in my heart. _ I do not know 
what is the matter with me now, but I long to pillow his head upon my 
breast, as a mother soothes her tired child to rest. I have boasted of 
my strength of will, but I cannot longer deceive myself. God help me ! 
only love for him finds place in my heart. 

Laurence. (Attempts to rise, falls back, speaks with difficulty.) 
Who are you? I do not hear what you say, but your voice seems like 
one speaking to me out of the past. Like one that I loved so to hear. 
Is this the creation of my physical weakness? You can tell where I 
am. I know I was wounded, but can remember nothing after that. 



i 4 MISTRESS NANCY. 

Nancy. (Approaching the couch.) You arc in the Pennsylvania 
Military Hosoital, at Chester. You must remain quiet. The doctor 
prescribes perfect rest for you. You will obey his order? 

Laurence. Yes, since you ask it. Haven't I met you before? Of 
course the question is absurd. Yet I feel that somewhere we have met 
before to-day. If this be a mere phantom of memory', it is so sweet 
that one could wish to pass into the unknown world under the influ- 
ence of such a dream. If it is real — (attempts again to rise.) 

Nancy. Do not move. (Places her hand on his licad.) I am no 
part of any dream of your past. I am a nurse in this hospital, and I 
want to do all that I can to make you well and strong again. You 
must sleep now. 

Laurence. (Slowly.) Don't remove your hand. Its presence 
seems to soothe and comfort me. I have not seen your face yet. but I 
know — I know — (falls asleep.) 

Nancy. (Leaning over him.) He sleeps peacefully as a guiltless 
child. He is exhausted now (feels his pulse). He must not be dis- 
turbed. He must regain strength. I must be composed and prepared 
to meet what is before me. 

(Enter Anna. . .Nancy, looking at her. raises her hand for silence, 
then places her finger on her lips to emphasize her meaning. Anna, 
viho in dumb show lets it he known that she recognizes Laurence, 
stands near foot of couch. Nancy falls on her knees in attitude of 
prayer beside the couch. Curtain slowly descends.) 



ACT III.— A MONTH LATER. 

[Same scene as in last act. Captain Laurence and Martha Bunt- 
ing discovered.] 

Laurence. I am unable, in words, to give expression to the obli- 
gations you have placed me under during my convalescence. Mistress 
Bunting. 

Martha. Yet I have done so little. Captain Grantham and Nancy 
Laurence — odd is it not that her name and yours are alike? — have been 
unremitting in their attentions to you. vVhen your recovery was 
doubtful— for you made no fight for your life — Nancy, for four aa? 
never left your bedside. She could not have been more devoted to 
you had you been her husband. To her unselfish ministrations is large- 
ly due your restoration to health. You owe her much that you can 
never repay her. 

Laurence. I know. I shall never be able to show her how greatly 
I appreciate her womanly kindness to me, a comparative stranger to 
her. 

Martha. Captain Grantham was also constant in his attention to 
you, but not in the like way that Nancy was. 

Laurence. Grantham is a splendid fellow. I cannot recognize his 
unselfish acts better than in extending my congratulations to you, Mis- 
tress Bunting. 

Martha. What have I to do with him? 

Laurence. Is not a woman who has won the love of such a man 
to he congratulated? 

Martha. Captain Laurence, you are mistaken. Don't misunder- 
stand me. To Captain Grantham I am under the greatest obligations. 
Twice he saved my life, but I am nothing to him. Haven't you noticed 
that he avoids me? 



.MISTRESS NANCY. 15 

Laurence. Certainly lie does not obtrude himself upon you. Yet 
where you are, there he is also. 1 shall be plain with you. You two — 
who have been so good to me — stand unwittingly, 1 think, in the way 
of your own happiness. Grantham loves you with all the fervor with 
which a noble, strong man regards the woman to whom he has given 
his heart. 

Martha. I will be plain also. 1 do not shrink from acknowl- 
edging to you that I would esteem myself peculiarly fortunate if what 
you have said were true. I ought not, maybe, to have told you that, 
Captain, but as I have said that much, I will expect that you shall 
hold my confidence inviolate. Under no circumstances will you inti- 
mate to Captain Grantham what I have just told you. 

Laurence. I am a gentleman. To you, 1 need offer no further 
pledge. Cantain Grantham 1- a brave man, who can be relied upon to 
do heroic deeds, and yet he is exceedingly timid in the presence of wo- 
men, certainly when with the one woman who is all the world to him. 

Martha. If I am that woman, why should he be timid in my 
presence ? 

Laurence. You are reputed wealthy. You have proclaimed — I 
myself have heard you — your abhorance of male fortune hunters. In 
that you have created a barrier between Captain Grantham and your- 
self, for he imagines it had reference to him. You, like most women, 
desire to be loved for yourself and not for the estate you represent. 
I believe you to be in love with Grantham. ( Martha raises her hand 
with gesture of disbelief.) At all events he loves you. A woman can 
always smooth the way under such circumstance- to a proper under- 
standing with the man she fancies, 

Martha. You certainly do nol lack plainness in speech, Captain 
Laurence. But {anxiously) I do esteem Captain Grantham as highly 
as a woman can esteem a man who is merely a valued friend. 

Laurence. You more than esteem him. I do not urge you to for- 
get your womanhood, but surely your tact can find an opportunity for 
him to disclose his preference. 1 shall ever regret should you and he 
fail to reach an understanding 111 this matter. 

Martha. I don't know why I have permitted you to discuss this 
subject with me. Possibly 1 feel the need of confession. ,\i all events, 
I trust you so fully that I dare tell you that I am unhappy because I 
fear Captain Grantham may newer comprehend h<>\\ much he is to me. 

Laurence. I fear the future for you both. Three words will 
break down the barrier now separating you. I would be sorry if his 
or your life should be blighted as mine has been. 

Martha. Your past has been unhappy, but not a discreditable 
past, uf that I am assured. (Earnestly.) Captain Laurence, you 
have made me disclose a secret that I had dared hardly to acknowledge 
to myself. Trust me with yours. I may help you. Remember the 
fable of the "Lion and the Mouse." 

Laurence. Your reference to Aesop's is not applicable. But I 
have made allusion to my past and therefore I have given you the right 
to know something of that past. Remember that I do not blame the 
woman that wrecked my life with aught that is wrong. She was onlv 
a child, with no one to guide her. Indeed, appearances justified the 
conclusions she reached. 

Martha. How long ago did this happen? The girl — where is 
she now ? 

Laurence. It occurred nearly five years ago. I do not know 
where my wife now is. Probably in Southern France, for as a child 



16 MISTRESS NANCY. 

she passed a winter there with her guardian. I have not seen her 
since the hour we were wed. 

Martha. She was your wife, then? You know nothing of her 
whereabouts? 

Laukence. I Know nothing save that she is still alive. My law- 
yers have her address, where remittances are made to her. I never 
asked them to give it to me. She left me of her own sugggestion. She 
must return to me, if ever, of her own option. 

Martha. Never saw her since your marriage? 

Laurence. Only in dreams. While I was ill recently, when my 
mind was responsive to the weakness of the body, I thought sometimes 
that she was at my bedside. Of course, it was merely a delusion, born 
of confused sad memories. 

Martha. Your runaway wife was a mere child. How old did 
you say ? 

Laurence. Only fourteen. Yes, a child. (Nancy enters, comes 
forward, is about to return, but stops.) She was my uncle's ward. 
He wished that we should marry. He spoke to me so often, and in 
his letters never tired of praising her qualities of mind and heart, and 
he so joyed in her budding beauty, that I learned to love her, and this 
feeling was intensified when we were thrown together at intervals 
when I visited my uncle. 

Martha. Your parents — were they favorable to the match ? 

Laurence. My parents died when I was an infant. Uncle loved 
me, although my grandfather had used me as a means to do uncle a 
grievous wrong. Uncle, as guardian for his ward, had invested her 
fortune in securities that subsequently became almost worthless. When 
I received orders for foreign service, he sent for me, although he had 
written a letter that fully explained the conditions that would exist in 
the event of his death. He little thought my visit would bring death 
to him. 

Martha. I do not understand. 

Laurence. You will presently. A heavy storm had washed the 
roads and I was delayed in reaching the Oaks. Nancy Worthington, 
the name of my uncle's ward, and I were married within an hour after 
my arrival. The unexpected call of a clergyman at the house gave op- 
portunity to carry out uncle's and my wish. 

Martha. Why was the marriage hastened? 

Laurence. Uncle well knew that his life hung by a thread and 
any undue excitement might prove immediately fatal. He believed his 
ward and I were attached to each other. He feared that should he 
die, when the fact that Nancy's fortune had been injudiciously invested 
became known, even in his grave he would be reviled as a dishonest 
man who had failed in the faithful discharge of a trust he had ac- 
cepted. 

Martha. But I do not comprehend how the marriage could pre- 
vent that. 

Laurence. I was heir to all my grandfather's possessions. That 
marriage entered into, Nancy would never feel the want of her indi- 
vidual fortune. I promised uncle to replace it out of the income of the 
estate, for uncle was lavish in expenditures and knew not how to econ- 
omize. I did make Nancy's fortune secure, hut not in the way uncle 
and I proposed. 

Martha. But the marriage. Was it a mere business problem? 

Laurence. No. My fate was decided by a series of accidents. I 
was delayed by official duty in my visit to the Oaks. In the hurry of 
departure for the north, I unwittingly changed cloaks with a fellow 



MISTRESS NANCY. 17 

officer. After our marriage, in my hasty return, I left the cloak at the 
Oaks. When it was found, a letter was found also. I never saw 1 
letter. It had been written by the wife to her husband and announced 
the birth of a son. It was addressed to the husband, and signed merely 
by the title of wife. No names. As it was open, uncle read the letter, 
designing, if necessary, to forward it to me by a post rider to insure 
its reaching me before we sailed. 

Martha. But that could all have been explained satisfactorily. 
Laurence. It could have been explained fully, but the shock was 
fatal to my uncle. He died almost immediately, believing that I had 
actually committed bigamy and had added to the family dishonor, in- 
stead of protecting the name from even the suspicion of infamy, as I 
had promised him I would. 

'Martha. Your wife, what of her? 

Laurence. She believed that my crime had slain her "Dad," her 
pet name for her guardian ; that I was already married ; and that the 
ceremony just performed was a nullity. Hence, after the funeral of her 
guardian, she left the Oaks the same day, and I have never seen her 
since our wedding morn. 

Martha. I think you said you made no attempt to learn of her 
whereabouts. 

Laurence. No. I felt that I was the party aggrieved. (Pauses.) 
Martha. Yes — well — continue. I am interested. 
Laurence. She communicated with my — and indeed her — lawyers. 
I instructed them to negotiate a loan on mortgage of the estate — I could 
do that without her joining in the indenture — for the full amount of 
her individual fortune. It turned out there were many claims against 
the estate, due to the dishonesty of the manager, who embezzled the 
income and left unpaid debts, which finally amounted to a large fortune. 
I could have legally avoided most of those charges, but that would have 
brought upon my uncle's memory the odium he dreaded. I made ad- 
ditional loans, those claims were paid, and finally the estate was sold 
on foreclosure. I had left to me hardly one thousand pounds. 

Martha. You were the victim of a budget of blunders, of which 
you are not wholly guiltless. Your wife should have been found and 
informed of the true condition of affairs. Had that been done you 
would not have been ruined. 

Laurence. Possibly, but she shut the door to all explanation. 
Martha. Well, it has all resulted disastrously to you. 
Laurence. No British officer can support himself on his pay. 
Little bv little my capital dwindled away, live as carefully as I could 
without earning the contempt of my fellows. I have hardly three hun- 
dred pounds left to me in all the world. I sold my commission, and 
now I am actually no longer in the King's military service. I have de- 
cided to settle in the Colonies, for let the present struggle eventuate 
as it may, here will be presented opportunities for a poor man to make 
his way to fortune, that are denied him in the mother country. I will 
not enter the American Army in this quarrel between King and Colon- 
ies. I could not do that. 

Martha. Do you no longer love your wife? 

Laurence. I never doubted my love for her until recently. I 
now know another woman has usurped the place she once held in my 
affections. It is for that reason I must leave here presently. 
Martha. You have met that woman recently? Is she — 
Laurence. (Interrupting her.) I have told you more than I 
ought to have done. Keep my secret as I shall keep yours. I did not 
know the old wound would bleed so freely. My life is a weary burden 



18 MISTRESS NANCY. 

to me now. (Walks towards door with head down.) (Nancy hides 
behind a window curtain.) Pardon me, I will not longer annoy you 
with my unhappy past. (Bows and exits.) 

Martha. Poor fellow! Fate has dealt roughly with him. 

Nancy. (Excitedly, approaching Martha.) How did you win 
this man's confidence? You have already the devoted love of Captain 
Grantham. That should Suffice. I tell you that Captain Laurence Bar- 
rington shall not be made the sport of a coquettish woman. I will not 
permit it. 

Martha. Nancy, you are beside yourself. I do not seek the love 
of Captain Laurence. But you gave him another name. I thought his 
surname and yours were alike. 

Nancy. They are. My name is Nancy Barrington — I am Laur- 
ence Barrington's wife. No woman shall now come between his love 
and me. He loves me. Make no mistake. And I will hold his heart 
against the world. He has outlined to you something of his life, but 
to me who knows much that was untold, as I listened, my eyes were 
opened to the truth. I did not know until this hour the dire conse- 
quences of my impulsive, heedless act. I was driven to it under the 
smart of what I thought was a premeditated wrong to me and to my 
poor dead "Dad." I held my life as ended until this last month, and 
soughi relief in doling my days out in acts of charity. Martha Bunt- 
ing, for God's sake do not drive me to desperation. 

Martha. I do not love your husband. Had you been here earlier 
you would have heard me confess my love for Captain Grantham. He 
was pleading for Grantham, who is too timid to pl_ead for himself. His 
own sad story was merely used to illustrate his appeal for his friend. 

Nancy. Before high heaven, do you speak only the truth? 

Martha. On my soul's salvation, I tell you only the truth. 

Nancy. (Catching Martha in her arms.) I could worship you 
for those words. You do not know what they mean to me. Once 
while my husband lay hovering between life and death, I stooped and 
kissed him, and 1 heard him say in a weak whisper I love you. Nancv. 
my wife." I was then still blind to the truth, ignorant of his noble 
acts, but I fell even then that I was his and he was mine, regardless 
of any barrier that might interpose between us. 

Martha. Shall I tell him Nancy who you are!* That you, the 
matured woman, and the »irl whom he married nearly five years ago 
are the same? 

Nancy. No! no! That might he fatal. I shall win him back 
unaided. He loves me. He is fighting against that love now, for he 
has no thought that I am his runaway wife. That, I must tell him. 
He must hear that from no other lips but mine. Martha, forgive me for 
my suspicions, for everything I have said to you in my anger. I was 
wild with jealousy, and for the moment, I believed you had stolen his 
heart from me. You will forgive me, won't you? 

Martha. I have nothing to forgive. Go to your room, Nancy, 
and you will soon be the placid Nancy Laurence. (Knock.) Someone 
i> coming. {Captain Grantham opens door, mid enters.) 

Nancy. I will do as you suggest, Martha. Captain, I cannot tell 
you how much I love Martha Bunting. (Exit.) 

Grantham. No. I can't tell you either. I didn't mean that, Mis- 
tress Hunting. I hope you won't he angry with me for what I have 
said. 

Martha. Why, no sensible girl is ever angry because some one 
lovi - her. That is usually a pleasant thing to be told one. 



MISTRESS NANCY. 19 

Grantham. Yes, I suppose so. By the way, Mistress Bunting, 
did you ever suspect that I am in love? 

Martha. (Pleased vet surprised.) Why, how could 1 suspect 
that? Why should I? , , t , 

Grantham. It is true, however. Now you and I are the best ot 
friends. As a friend, I thought I would ask your advice and sugges- 
tion. You will advise me, won't you? 

Martha. {Startled. Aside.) Can I have been so gravely mis- 
taken ? I have learned to love this man, who now comes and asks me 
to tell him how to woo another woman ! I am the most miserable girl 
in all this colony! (Aloud to Grantham.) I have no experience in 
such matters, but so far as my judgment may serve, I will try to help 
you by suggestion. 

Grantham. Thank you. What I want to know is how should a 
timid man propose to a girl he loves? Take my case for instance. 
Should I learn by rote some accepted poetical masterpiece and disclose 
to the woman I love my passion for her by declaiming the poet's verse. 

Martha. No! no! That would be altogether objectionable on 
such an occasion. It would certainly not be flattering to the lady. She 
would prefer almost anything in preference to that. 

i>\NTH.\M. Should I propose to her by letter? 

Martha. That is sometimes done, Captain, but it robs the inci- 
dent of much of the sentiment which should ever be associated with 
that most important event in a woman's life. 

Grantham. Well, suppose I chanced to be standing near her as I 
am now near to you. Should I go down on my Knees, and— 

Martha. Kneeling at such times has now gone out, if it ever was 
in fashion. 111 

Grantham. Suppose then I stood back of her, as I now stand back 
of your chair, and suddenly I should stoop and kiss her, do you think 
she would understand, or would she resent the act and banish me from 
her presence? 

.Martha. (Sadly.) If she loves you. Captain Grantham, she 
would understand. 

Grantham. You are sure of that? 

Martha. Beyond all doubt. I am certain. (Grantham stoops 
quickly and kisses her.) 

Grantham. I acted upon your advice, Mistress Bunting. You 
are not angry with me? Say you are not? 

Martha. (Rising, and in anxious tones.) Tell me, Captain 
Grantham, do you mean that you — 

Grantham. That I love you. If you dont love me, I will be very, 
ver« sorry. I didn't mean to annoy you. I will go awav and not trouble 
you further. I have written a letter asking to be called into active ser- 
vice immediately. I will send it off at once by an express rider. 

Martha. You are not sufficiently recovered to bear the hardships 
of camp life. You mustn't go. You would break my heart, Captain 
Grantham, if you endangered unnecessarily your— your — (whimpers.) 

Grantham. Yes! Well! What? 

Martha. (Slipping her hand into his.) Well, you were hardly 
fair in what you did just now. 

Grantham. Why! I don't understand. 

Martha. You kissed me to declare your love for me, didn't you. 
do that, Captain ? 

Grantham. I dared not proclaim it in words. 

Martha. But why did you deny me opportunity to show you in 
like manner my love for you ? 



20 MISTRESS NANCY. 

Grantham. Were yon willing to kiss me? 

Martha. Of course I was, and am still willing, you silly goose. 
(Grantham catches her in his arms.) Why, I have loved you ever 
since I knew you.- Certainly since the afternoon you leaped into Ches- 
ter creek and saved my life. Why, dearest, I believe I should have so 
far forgotten womanly custom as to have told my love to you had you 
not lead me astray by asking my advice, as a friend, how you should 
propose to some other girl. You almost broke my heart when yon did 
that. 

Grantham. Martha, my darling, I never could have mustered up 
courage to propose to you in so many words. Why, I can only wonder 
that I had spunk enough even to kiss you. But, did I propose to you 
after all? 

Martha. Of course you did. You just put the seal of love on 
my lips. That was your beautiful way of asking me to be your wife. 
Don't you see how much that meant? 

Grantham. Well, if you say you understood that I asked you to 
be my wife, I am just too glad for anything. I was afraid I had only 
got half through the job and you hadn't given me any advice how I was 
to proceed next after the kissing. 

Martha. Charlie, I'll undertake to teach you now. I rather like 
being a tutor — a tutor for you, I mean. 

Grantham. It is true, though, that I have asked to rejoin my 
regiment, but the doctor says I am not physically able to resume active 
duty immediately. 

Martha. Your immediate duty is to me at present. For several 
months, I have been wretchedly uncertain as to your feeling for me, 
but now — (Enter Barrington.) 

Barkington. Pardon me. One of the negroes, Ananias, I think 
stated that on the Queen's highway, a short distance from Chester, 
Wagon-Master Jordan has been found foully murdered, and that Moses 
has stupidly associated me with the crime. I learn that a number of 
discharged Continental soldiers, who have been drinking during the 
day, design to inflict punishment on me for a deed in which I had no 
part. Captain Grantham, I propose to go forth and meet these men. 
(Enter Nancy, Anna, and Ananias.) 

Ananias. Deed, Misses, dat fool Moses jes done de bisness. He 
likes to bar hisself talk. He don't tent to do no harm, but he jes 
swelled up wif conceit like a toad when de drunken soldiers got 'round 
him, and den he lied like a cryer at a public sale — he feld so 'portant. 
He lowed dat de Captain here was de Lord knows who ; dat he was so 
rich dat he had to hire sev'ral chaps to help him spend his money ; dat 
he was as strong as Goliath ; that he and Master Jordan had squarreled 
about somethin' and de Captain jest fetched him a lick wif his fist and 
busted him wide open, and — 

Nancy. Never mind. That is enough of that twaddle. I learn 
that Master Jordan has been shot. A number of the men of the 5th 
Pennsylvania Line, recruited from this neighborhood, were discharged 
this morning. Within a week most of them will re-enlist, but many of 
them are now drunk and quarrelsome. This foolish boasting of Moses, 
for it was only that, has so inflamed them that you must go into hiding. 
Captain Laurence, for a few hours. If they were to capture you now, 
I fear serious injuries, if not death, would be inflicted on you in the 
drunken rage of these soldiers, who, if sober, would not molest you. 

Laurence. I have nothing to conceal. I have done no wrong. I 
have never seen Master Jordan to know him. In all my life I have 



MISTRESS NANCY. 21 

never sought safety in hiding. Mine has not been such a life that I 
should sacrifice my honor, which is more to me than life, to save it. 

Nancy. (Anxiously.) But your life is everything to others. 
(Laurence shakes his head.) I will not have it so. You were pleased 
to tell me I had been kind to you. You will not be unkind to me now. 
When I ask you to do this for me, you shelter your denial of my wish 
behind your honor. Before Heaven, Captain Laurence, I am the last 
person who would advise you to your shame. A few hours, and the 
ferocity of the mob will spend itself. Then you can face the world with 
unsullied reputation. Won't you do that for me? 

Laurence. For you I would do anything that an honorable man 
can do. But — 

Grantham. Captain Laurence, Mistress Nancy is right in this. I 
would stake my soul on her judgment. 

Martha. (Aside to Grantham.) Bless you for that. (Aloud.) 
Captain Laurence, you cannot refuse Nancy's request. Trust her wo- 
manly impulse and all will be well. 

Laurence. (Aside to Martha.) You know my unhappy life. A 
married man, and yet I love that woman (points to Nancy) with a 
hopeless love. Possibly in facing the mob, I shall escape years devoid 
of happiness. 

Martha. (Aside to Laurence.) That is a coward's reasoning. 
You are not a coward. How about her, for she loves you. The mor- 
row may be full of joy for you both. 

Laurence. (Aloud.) As you all will it so, I consent. 

Nancy. (Aside to Martha.) He yields to you and the others. 
He was deaf to my pleadings. 

Martha. (Aside.) Woman, you are madly jealous. Nancy, he 
loves you. It is of you he is now thinking — not himself. Let me dis- 
close the truth ? 

Nancy. (Aside.) No! no! Not you! Again I say I alone must 
tell it him, if he ever learns the truth. 

Grantham. What is to be done must be done quickly. Your 
plans, Mistress Nancy? 

Nancy. The old archway of the granary is a place accursed. The 
superstitious people dread the ghost of the murdered girl that haunts 
that spot. We will hasten there. A boat is moored in the creek, at 
that place. Captain Laurence can reach it and make his way to the 
New Jersey shore. 

Moses. (Running in.) Dey is acomin'. I'se bin a natural-born 
durn fool wif my tongue, but you'se folks run, and Moses will hoi his 
house agin de crowd tel dey jest hack him into mincemeat. 

Nancy. Moses, you must come with us. We can elude the pur- 
suit if we act immediately. Come one and all. There is now no time 
to lose. (Stage darkened.) 

[Scene 2. The old archway of the granary Thunder is heard 
and lightning now and then illuminates the rear of the stage. Laurence. 
Nancy. Grantham. Martha. Anna, Moses, and Ananias discovered.] 

Anna. I will keep watch here, while you cast the boat adrift. 
The mob have already learned of our flight. (Dog's bray is heard.) 
Nancy, thev have loosened your pet, Tip. He will guide them to us. 
You must be quick, whatever is to be done. 

Grantham. In this darkness, I cannot undo the painter. If I 
only had a light for a moment. 

Moses. (Produces piece of heavy tarred rope.) Bless de Lord. 
I done got an oakum torch wif me. 



22 MISTRESS NANCY. 

Martha. I'm not afraid. I will run across to Mr. Graham's and 
get steel and tinder. I do not fear these men. They are of my people 
and will not harm me. 

Anna. (Tossing box to Grantham.) . I have steel and tinder. 
Hurry, for you have little time. (Grantham strikes a light. Noise of 
approaching men is heard.) 

Nancy. Give me the torch. (To Laurence.) Get you into the 
boat. It will be cast adrift presently. 

Laurence. I will not go if danger threatens you, my friends. 

Anna. They are here. (Enters mob of intoxicated soldiers in 
ragged uniforms.) 

Drunken Soldier. No you don't. You overshot the mark, my 
lady. Some of us ain't afeared of ghosts. We are tracking a mur- 
derer. Mistress Nancy, we will do no harm to any oi you, but that 
man we will have — (About to advance.) 

Nancy. (With torch in her hand.) Stand back! every man of 
you, if you would not die. You know that I have never lied to you. I 
am not lying to you now. Some of you know that in the cellar of this 
building is stored fifty kegs of powder. Several of the packages are 
broken ; more or less of the powder is strewn over the other packages. 
I do not wish to do anyone harm, but if you enter this archway I will 
cast this lighted torch into that cellar through that open window, as 
surely as there is a God. This man is innocent of all wrong, and you 
shall not murder him, if to prevent that I am compelled to stain my 
soul with a hundred lives. 

(Crowd hesitates. The boat is cast off with Laurence in it and 
drifts atvay, as the curtain falls.) 



ACT IV. 



[Scene. — Sitting-room in Hospital. Moses and Ananias discov- 
ered. ] 

Ananias. Look yer, you Moses. If it hadn't ben for de power- 
ful grit ob Mistress Nancy, de crowd would hab got de Captain cer- 
tain. Dat ought to done and learn you dat it's a good thin' to go slow 
and keep de brakes on you'se tongue. I 'clar to goodness dat of dey 
didn't stopped right den, de young Misses would hab flung dat chunk 
ob flamin' oakum right into de cellar ob de granary and whar you ben 
now? 

Moses. I don't know whar I ha' ben, but whar you'se all ben if 
she had frowed it. I jes think only ob her, fo' she neber done me no 
harm, but alius had a smile and a good word to say to me. Many de 
hidin' she saved me from, and many de shillin' she slipped into my 
hand, when I hadn't done nothin' why she should do dat. Ananias, 
she's nn angel. Dat's what she is. And it hurted me right here (put- 
ting his hand on his heart) when I found dat I had done and put her 
in all dat trouble. 

Ananias. It war jes 'cause you'se mouf de bigges' part of you'se. 

Moses. I didn't 'tend no harm en what I said. I was jes glory- 
fying de Captain. I thought she'd like dat. (Coming close to Ana- 
nias.) As sure as you'se horned. Misses Nancy jes worships de groun' 
whar Captain Laurence walks. I didn't 'tend to spy on her, but 'bout 
a week or ten days ago, de Captain war asleep on de settee — fo' dey had 
gib him d£ ^eQicine to make him sleep — and when I went into de room, 



MISTRESS NANCY. 23 

fo' I didn't know nobody war dar. she moaned out "Forgive me I 
didn't know what I did." Hope I may die right now ef I d seed her 
do nolhin' to go on 'bout like dat. 

Ananias You don't know nuffin, nohow. It jest makes me sick 
to bar you talk 'bout de women. A gal jes as often cries when she 
feels good as when she's miserable. Now dar s Misses Martha. I 
jes bar her a half hour ago tell her Ma dat Captain Grantham had 
'posed to her, and she busted out a cryin' for all she war worth, yet she 
kept kissin' de ole Misses and "daring" dat she war de happiest gal in 
all de world. When you'se gits as ole as I is, you 'low dat women is 
curious — (Enters Grantham.) 

■Grantham. What is curious, Ananias? Has anything gone 

wrong? 

Ananias. No, sir. I war jes tellin' Moses har dat he didn t 
know nothin' 'bout women folks. 

Grantham. Do you' > ' 

Ananias. More dan he does. I was tryin' to 'splain to him why 
Misses Martha, when she done tole her Ma dat you bad '/one and 
'posed to her, jest cried and 'peated to de ole Misses dat she war de 
happiest gal in all de world. 

Grantham. Did she say that, Ananias 5 

Ananias. I cross my breaf ef it ain't true. Captain. 

Grantham. Ananias, here's a shilling for you. If you come to 
the house to-morrow I have a suit of clothing thai does not fit me ex- 
actly. I think they will fit you. If you want them. I will give them to 
you. 

Ananias. Thank you, Captain. I'll come dead sure, to-morrow 
mornin' jest after breakfast, for I'se got an errand to do near you'se 
house. 

Grantham. I will look for you then. But you must not tell any- 
one about Mistress Martha. She would not. and I shall not like it if 
you did that. You may go now. (Moses and Ananias walk up stage.) 

Ananias. I wonder what made de Captain gib me dat shillin' and 
promise me dat suit ob cloth? 'Sometimes, Moses, de white man is jes 
as curious and hard to calclate on as de white gal. 

Moses. Umph ! I 'spect de black man and gal is jes as funny, 
'casionally. I seed dem do bery shonanegan things in my time, dat I 
couldn't 'splain nohow. (Exit Moses and Ananias.) 

Grantham. I suppose it is all right that I should be as happy as 
I am, yet I cannot but feel exceedingly anxious as to Nancy and 
Laurence. Confound that fellow! He is Nancy's husband and I know 
he is in love with his own wife. Martha told me that Nansy loves him 
with all her heart, but Martha doesn't know that he is Nancy's hus- 
Laivl. The surprising part is that Laurence is ignorant that Nancy ts 
bis wife, and I have promised not to tell him the one thing that he 
abeve all men ought to know. How will it all end? Of course, she 
was uk rely a budding girl of five years ago; now she is a matured wo 
n-an. and it all happened in England. Nancy must Tcnow that be loves 
her, for \ou can trust a woman to read the man she fancies, if it 
were not for this odd condition of affairs. Laurence would -peak out, 
li'ce the sensible man he is. But be certainly has not said a v.-m! to 
her that would lead to an explanation. I acknowledge that I am all in 
a muddle. Any riddle in which a woman figures is beyond my 
solution. 

Martha. (Entering.) I didn't expect to find you here. (Grant- 
ham acts as if about to leave.) Oh! I didn't want you to go away. 
I'd rather you would stay. I ran over to see Nancy, for she seemed 



24 MISTRESS NANCY. 

greatly unnerved by the exciting scene she went through at the granary. 
It must now be near 10 o'clock and I will be afraid to return home 
alone. I would feel far safer if you went with me. Some of the in- 
toxicated soldiers are still abroad, and I'd be dreadfully scared if I 
should meet them by myself. 

Grantham. All right. I will protect you. I'm not afraid of a 
man. 

Martha. You are not afraid of me, Captain? 

Grantham. No. That is, I'm not so much now as I was once 
upon a time. You see, Martha, I'm not afraid now to tell you I love 
you. The thing that bothers me is to understand how you can recipro- 
cate my affections. I can't see how a woman can tolerate a chump of 
a fellow who lacks grit. 

Martha. Charlie, notwithstanding your timidity, I love you. Why 
I am not afraid to place myself under your protection as long as I shall 
live. You dear old boy, you don't know what a manly man you are. 
Captain Laurence in speaking to me termed you a splendid fellow. 
Yet he doesn't know how good you have been to Nancy, and how you 
lent strength to her when she was almost heart broken for fear that 
Laurence would die without recognizing her and forgiving her for her 
sad mistake. If she would only let me tell Laurence the truth. I know 
all would be right. 

Grantham. Oh! you know more than I thought you did. How- 
ever, Nancy is right. But I should not have spoken to you about this 
at all. 

Martha. You would not have spoken to me of this until she gives 
her consent for you to do so? 

Grantham. No. Her secret is not mine to tell even to you, and 
she never gave her consent that I should do so. I do not know how far 
I am justified even now in discussing her affairs with you. 

Martha. I think you are real mean not to trust me. What right 
have you to share a secret with any other woman. Charlie. I did not 
mean what I said, indeed I didn't. I just think you are splendid. A 
man who will not tell his — I mean his girl friend. No, I don't mean 
that either — his only girl friend a secret that has been given to him in 
confidence, will not betray the confidence placed in him by his — his best 
girl friend. He can be trusted to be true to his vows to her. 

Grantham. Didn't you intend to say wife instead of his only girl 
friend? 

Martha. Yes. I did. But I haven't gotten quite accustomed to 
the word yet, Charlie. 

Grantham. Don't you know I've written Martha Grantham a 
dozen times in the last hour to see how it looked on paper. 

Martha. Did you never do it before to-day, Charlie? 

Grantham. Well, well, yes. But — 

Martha. You haven't asked me if I ever wrote that name before 
to-day? (Drazcs close to him.) Why, you darling, I have been prac- 
ticing on that name for a year nearly. It isn't hard for me to write it 
now. (Takes liis face between her liaiids.) But I was afraid until 
to-day that my practicing might not amount to anything. But now 
I'm the happiest girl in all the world. 

Grantham. Haven't you said that once before to-day? 

Martha. Who told you so? 

Grantham. I heard it, pet. and I determined that I would try to 
make that declaration the truth, if it laid in my power to do so. I 
have something to tell you. I have received since I saw you, by a 



MISTRESS NANCY. 25 

special express, orders to report for duty, if the surgeon consents, and — 
and — 

Martha. (Anxiously.) Well, well, tell me. You ought to tell 
me everything now. 

Grantham. Yes, everything I have the right to tell you. Darling, 
I want you to write without blushing the name Martha Grantham. I 
want you to have the right to do that before I shall go again to the 
front. 

Martha. (Shaking her head.) Why I couldn't — I couldn't get 
ready in less than a fortnight. 

Grantham. Well, let us say this day fortnight? {Martha hesi- 
tates.) You won't consent? 

Martha. I didn't say I wouldn't. Well, just to please you (put- 
ting her hand in his) if you want it so, yes. 

Grantham. That is all settled to my, and darling I hope to your, 
liking. Now let us search for Nancy, for it is growing late and she 
may not wish us to remain here in her private apartments. I am anxi- 
ous about Laurence. I have come to esteem him highly. He had no 
money with him before the mob sought to capture him. That I know. 
No one is likely to have furnished him with any at the granary, unless 
Nancy did, for she thinks of all such essential details, and she may 
know where remittances can be forwarded to him. 

Martha. (As she and Grantham walk up stage.) We will find 
her somewhere in the garden. It will be well to talk that matter over - 
with her. (Exit.) 

Lvurence. (Outside the window, which he opens carefully and 
enters. Takes large, old-fashioned pistol fr< m breast, and lays it on 
the table.) I cannot avoid this shameful return. Every penny I own 
in the world is in the pocket of my uniform coat. I trust I shall arouse 
no one, that I can get the wallet without being seen, and that I can slip 
away no one the wiser. (Nancy enters from chamber starts then %oes 
to rear of stage.) This room surely is not the one I occupied. I do 
not remember that a door opened from it into another apartment. 

Nancy. (Advancing.) You here? I do not understand. You 
should have been now in New Jersey. 

Laurfnce. Mistress Nancy. You are a brave woman not to 
scream. You will believe me when I assure you that I came here with 
no evil or dishonest purpose. 

Nancy. I have never questioned your honesty since we met in 
Chester. But again I ask you why are you here? 

Laurence. The boat was a seive. It hardly carried me to the op- 
posite side of the creek before it sank to the gunwales. In the dark- 
ness I was a long time finding the King's highway. That I followed 
crossing the bridge and came directly here. I was without money. In 
a wallet in my uniform coal, that I wore when brought here wounded, 
was nearly 300 pounds in notes and specie. I came for that. I did 
not wish that anyone should know that I had returned here, but I 
seem to have mistaken the apartments. 

Nancy. (Eagerly.) You came for nothing else? There is noth- 
ing else you will miss on leaving Chester? 

Laurence. Yes. But nothing that I can ever hope to attain. Eate 
has decreed otherwise. 

Nancy. Tell me what you propose to do? You must tell me that. 

Laurence. I know you do not ask merely from idle curiosity. I 

will attempt to reach Philadelphia. Burton has already gone there, 

in my interest. At that city, I will subscribe to the oath "required from 

foreigners. 



26 MISTRESS NANCY. 

Nancy. What then? Tell me, what then? 

Lai rence. Chance must determine that. 1 shall not in any event 
enter the Continental Army. 1 have held the King's Commission. I 
cannot forget that. In this struggle, I will not take up arms against 
my late companions. I have some capital. With that I shall embark 
in business in a small way. in the shipping line probably, where my ex- 
perience in the army may prove not wholly without value. 

Nancy. You came here unobserved? 

Laurence. I met two or three drunken men in James street. I 
am positive that they did not recognize me. 

Nancy. (While speaking draws window shutters to. bolts them, 
and puts bar at door.) In that you err. Those men recognized you. 
A warrant has already been issued for your arrest on a charge of mur- 
der. An attempt will he made to take you into custody, maybe to- 
night. I believed you would come back here, but I did not anticipate 
that it would be so soon. I feel nervous and overwrought. Be seated, 
Captain. 

Laurence. I shall not put you again in peril. I ought not to 
have returned, but I am a stranger recently wounded, and were I with- 
out money for pressing needs, I would soon he in dire want. Work is 
not easily obtained in these troublesome times. Capital can always 
command opportunity. 

Nancy. I have your wallet. But you must not go now ; not until 
morning at least. Your life would be imperilled if you were captured. 
In a few hours you will be no longer under suspicion, but at this mo- 
ment jyour life may pay the penalty of your temerity. 

Laurence. But there is more at stake than my life. WTose apart- 
ments are these ? 

Nancy. Mine. You will he safe here. 

Laurence. My safety purchased at your cost. Your fame sullied 
that I may live dishonored! I he men whom I met to-night, in their 
drunken conversation, coupled our names together. I will not have 
your purity smirched by the least act of mine. Your good name is 
dearer to me than my own life. 

NANCY. Captain Laurence. I cannot tell you how glad I am to 
hear you say that. I hold my good name beyond all price. But I as- 
sure you that your act will not impugn my honor in the least. You 
must stay — you shall not leave this room to-night to go probably to 
your death. (Places Iter hand on his arm.) You will stay Promise 
me you will stay? 

Laurence. You do not know what you ask. You do not know- 
how bard you make it for me. 

Nancy. (Still clinging to his arm.) What do I not know? Tell 
me? Why do you not act as I pray you to do? You will say yes for 
me? You will promise me that you will? I beg that from you with 
all my soul ! I am here and — 

Laurence. It is because you are here that I must go. I do not 
fear the drunken rabble. You and you only are the controlling reason 
that compells me to leave this place. 

Nancy. (Sobbing. Sinks into a chair.) Then I am so offensive 
to you that you cannot even remain in the same place with me? 

Laurence. You do not understand ! You do not comprehend. 
Listen then to me. I am madly in love with you. I had never thought 
to tell you this. 

Nancy. If you love me, you will yield to my request. You sure- 
lv would not break my heart, if you loved me. 



MISTRESS NANCY. 27 

Laurence. I love you with all my soul. God help me. I have 
fought against this love ever since I have been in this town. 

Nancy. Why? Why? Tell me why? 

Laurence. I cannot lay an honorable love at your feet. I will 
offer you no other. Never until I met you have I felt the fetters in 
which the past holds me. I am a married man. Husband of a run- 
away wife of whose present whereabouts I am now absolutely ignorant. 

Nancy. (Anxiously.) Do vou love your wife? Were she to 
come to you and declare in all truth that she had designedly done no 
wrong to you, in what she did ; that she loved you and has always 
loved you, would you not have compassion for her? If she declared 
truthfully that all she asks in life is the opportunity to show in her de- 
votion that you and you only are all the world to her, would you turn 
from her in "anger? You would not do that? Tell me, you would not 
crush her in your righteous indignation? 

Laurence. Will you not understand? It is you that has come be- 
tween me and my wife. Again I say that I never thought to tell you 
this. But I have loved you from the moment I heard your voice when 
wounded I was brought to this hospital. It has all been Fate's doing. 
Had I died then it would have been God's mercy for me. I have dared 
to tell you this that you may see why I cannot yield to your request. 

Nancy. But I — have I nothing at stake? Have I no part in 
this? Am I not to be considered? Not considered even if I tell vou 
that you own my heart so wholly that you are all the world to me? 

Laurence. I have never before played the coward's part. I have 
known that I should have gone from here long ago ; but my love for 
you made me defer from day to day the sad hour that would separate 
us forever. 

Nancy. (Coming closer to him.) You must have known that 
you had won my love. You could not be ignorant of that ? 

Laurence. To my shame, I did — I do know. You kissed me once 
when you believed me sleeping under the influence of a drug. I had 
thrown the mixture away, prompted to the act by an impulse I could 
not resist. That kiss told me all. 

Nancy. Yes, 1 have learned to love you so well that there is 
nothing I would not sacrifice for you. save your honor and mine. 

Laurence. You must not tell me this. 

Nancy. Your wife — she was a child almost? (Laurence nods 
sadly.) An unformed character that was yours to mould as you willed. 
She did love you. That you must never doubt. 

Laurence. You plead for her? 

Nancy. I am a woman who has known and been fashioned by 
great sorrows and cruel disappointments. You tell me that vou are a 
married man. I am a married woman, who, like your wife, is not liv- 
ing with her husband. I am guiltless of all intentional wrong to my 
husband. I have never betrayed his honor even in thought. Yet I 
love you with all the fervor a woman's heart can know. Don't you 
understand? I put your declarations to the proof. If you love me. if 
you care for my good name in this community, you will remain here 
and protect me from evil tongues. I will go mad if you deny me this 
request. Blind! Blind! Can you not see? 

Laurence. These are vour anartments. You have closed the win- 
dow and have barred the door. In your fear for me you have staked 
everything that women hold supreme. I could not doubt your love for 
me, yet should it be learned that I am here or have been here alone 
with you nt this hour of the night, your reputation would be smirched 
beyond all redemption. I cannot consent to live, knowing that you 



28 MISTRESS NANCY. 

gave all that is most precious to a pure woman to save me. (Goes to- 
ward door.) 

Nancy. {Springs before him. Noise heard without.) You shall 
not go. The mob is already here. (Door shaken and cry without 
"Open in the name of the Commonwealth.") You have promised to 
"reserve my good name even at the peril of your life. You can only 
guard my honor by remaining here. Justice Graham knows that I am 
a married woman — he knows much of my past. I shall claim you as 
my husband ; you must claim me as your wife. 

Laurence. Would to God I could! (Door begins to yield.) (To 
Nancy.) You have made my escape impossible now. (Points.) On 
that table is a laoded pistol. I know it is loaded, for I placed it there 
when I entered these apartments. Take it and use it as if you were 
holding me at bay. Let the mob do its worst to me. but your honor 
must be saved. Your womanly purity must be unchallenged. My life 
shall not be purchased by your shame. (Crowd breaks in. pushing in 
Graham. Grantham. Martha. Anna. Moses and Ananias.) 

Justice Graham. (Pointing to Laurence.) Is tnat the man you 
seek? 

Crowd. Yes, yes, that is James Dougherty ! 

Graham. That is not James Dougherty. I have known him for 
eight or nine years. The warrant orders the arrest of James Dougher- 
ty on a charge of murdering Mr. Jordan. Why, this man has been a 
patient in this hospital for nearly six weeks. He is only convalescent 
now. 

Nancy. Captain Laurence was within this building when Mr. 
Jordan was murdered. Mistress Bunting, Captain Grantham, myself. 
and others will be qualified to that statement. The foolish chattering 
of a negro slave, who by law cannot be a witness against a white per- 
son in our courts, is alone responsible for this mistake, which might 
have proved very serious. 

Graham. (To the crowd.) Good people of Chester, I assure you 
that man is not the one you seek. I congratulate you that any serious 
consequences of this error have been happily averted. These are Mis- 
tress Nancy Laurence's private apartments. She has been much tried 
to-day. You will therefore retire. (Exit crowd.) Mistress Nancy. 
I have a few words for you privately. 

Nancy. No, Mr. Graham. Whatever you wish to say, say it 
openlv. 

Graham. This gentleman has fortunately for himself been re- 
lieved from all suspicion. But there is a matter that needs explana- 
tion. When you came to Chester, you brought with you letters from 
some of my near relatives in London, commending you to my personal 
consideration. I made you welcome. For a time you were even of 
nv own family circle. I became socially responsible for you. These 
are your private apartments. (Nancy nods.) It cannot be denied that 
this gentleman and you have been alone here at this hour of the night. 
That you two were attached to each other has been generally spoken 
of in the town, not, however, to the discredit of either. Now it can- 
not be gainsaid the people had to force the barred door to gain access 
to this room. What explanation have you to give of these peculiar 
circumstances ? 

Laurence. Mr. Graham, you greatly exceed your authority by 
such questions and innuendoes. I will not permit you, Mistress Nancy, 
to answer these questions. 

Nancy. Pardon me, but in that I think you err. I have nothing 
to fear in proclaiming any act of mine. This gentleman was with me 



MISTRESS NANCY. 29 

in these apartments. A husband has the right to be with his wife at 
all times and in all places, he may choose without compromising her 
good name or sullying her wifely reputation. 

Graham. This lady is your wife? I knew she was married, but 
I did not even know her husband's name. I regret that you did not 
give your relationship publicity several weeks ago. Had that been 
done, certain it is you would have escaped the annoyance and danger 
to which you have been subjected. In wishing you good-night, I also 
wish you and your good wife happiness. (Exit.) 

Laurence. (Aside to Nancy.) We have only floundered yet 
deeper into difficulties. How will you explain later our relationship to- 
wards each other? 

Nancy. I have already explained that relationship as fully as I 
ever design to explain it to my friends or to strangers. Martha, I 
shall not have to eplain this matter to you? Nor to you, Captain 
Grantham, I fancy? 

Grantham. No, you need not explain this matter to me. Martha 
has done that already. 

Martha. Nancy, Captain Grantham and I are to be married with- 
in a fortnight. I couldn't, indeed I couldn't, keep any secret from him 
to save my soul. I had to tell him all about it. Then I guessed that 
he had been let partly into the secret by you, Mistress Nancy, yourself. 

Laurence. It seems that I am the only one, save Moses and An- 
anias, who appears to be ignorant of what has taken place. As it con- 
cerns me, I think, more than anyone here, excepting this lady (Points 
to Nancy) I would be glad if someone will give me knowledge of this 
secret. 

Nancy. Laurence Barrington, have you never suspected who I 
am? Do you not now understand that Nancy Worthington, the girl 
y ;i wed nearly five years ago, has grown into matured womanhood, 
and that Nancy Worthington and Nancy Laurence are the same person. 
I ?m your runaway wife — this paper substantiates that. ( Takes cer- 
tificate from bosom and displays it.) I have tried to win you anew. 
Laurence, when you told me I was my own rival in your love, you made 
me the happiest of women. Won't you pardon me, my husband? 
{Sinks to her knees.) Won't you accept me as your dutiful, devoted 
wife? (Laurence seems confused.) You refused me once in this 
room to-night the first request I had made of you for five long years. 
Do not refuse me again? It would be far more merciful should you 
kill me than to close your heart to me now. Tell me as you told me 
a short time ago that you love me with all your soul ! Tell me that 
you love Nancy Barrington, your wife, as fervidly as you love Nancy 
Laurence? Laurence, I have hungered for your love ever since I can 
remember anything. Forgive me for all the wrong I have done you, 
Laurence, my husband? Will you not make me happy in your for- 
giveness? (Extends her arms to him.) 

Laurence. Nancy, my loved wife. (Raises her up and kisses 
her. ) Darling, how blind I have been. Thank Heaven, all at last has 
come right. I do not doubt, nor would I wish to doubt that uncle is 
blessing us now as he did when we first registered the vows that made 
us man and wife. In this new land, we will begin life again, support- 
ins and upholding each other with a love that has been tried as with 
fire and shall never know change here or in the hereafter. 

Nancy. Laurence, hardly had you gone, when Daddy said to me 
"At some future time, my little girl, you will bless your old Dad's 
memory for this day and the happiness it has made possible for you." 



30 MISTRESS NANCY. 

Daddy, if in Heaven you can hear me, hear your little girl now when 
she declares that your words have come true. (Gives hand to Laur- 
ence.) We can bless Dad's memory together. (Curtain falls.) 



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